


distance

by ninata



Category: Berserk
Genre: Freeform, Griffith NOT being a piece of shit for once, Internalized Homophobia, Introspection, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Pining, Rejection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 20:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7403593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninata/pseuds/ninata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Griffith hurts in a way he can't put into words. Guts doesn't understand, and he never will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	distance

**Author's Note:**

> this implies a lot of misunderstandings between guts and griffith as well as some irony if you consider the end of the golden arc and everything. hopefully you won't take it as my misinterpreting griffith's character.

“You know you’re mine.”

Griffith whispers it, tying the sentence off with a ribbon and forcing himself to meet Guts’s confused gaze.

“Yeah, you tell me that a lot.”

Griffith is what you can describe as eloquent, someone whose words are always carefully picked and presented with a flourish. He struggles to find those words he so masterfully crafts, struggles to push something out that’ll convey what he means.

“I mean I...I care about you, Guts.”

“Gee, thanks. Where are you going with this?”

If he wasn’t so earnest, it would be so much easier. Guts adjusts his collar. He hates formal wear, and Griffith knows it. He can’t help but look sharp regardless. Griffith likes the look of blue on him, a contrast from the red cape and the black armor. He feels like a monster for thinking so.

It took ages to get a moment away from the chatty nobles, but Griffith feels selfish today. Maybe Guts looked too nice at this gala. Maybe Griffith’s a fool.

“Is that all you pulled me aside to say?” Guts asks, because he’s always so unassuming. Griffith chews the inside of his cheek. A man shouldn’t want another man like this, and Griffith knows it. He’s known all too well the way a man takes another, the way the rot spreads from the pit of his stomach to his fingertips. He thinks of red lines scraped across his arms, blood under his fingernails, Casca sounding so worried. He thinks of slick fingers and cold hands, _(You’re like a porcelain doll...can I break you?)_ how love can be bought and sold and how Guts can’t stand being touched by another man. Griffith smiles because it hides these thoughts, because it’s impossible to do anything but lie in the face of such a crushing feeling.

It’s not love. It can’t be love, even if it drives Griffith to do things he swore he never would. Put himself in danger, throw away a dream with a thousand deaths in its shadow. It can’t be love. Men don’t love men. It’s not how it works.

Even if it hurts like this, it can’t be. It shouldn’t be.

“Guts, if I kissed you, what would you do?”

There’s a pause. Guts’s eyebrow quirks, his jaw slacking just a bit. Griffith walks forward, willing his hands not to shake as they cup his cheeks. There’s a tug in his chest at the contact.

“I— H-Hold on, hold on—”

“If I kissed you right here on this balcony, what would you do?”

Griffith’s breath ghosts over Guts’s lips. How else could he say it? What else should he do? Griffith hurts, a dull pain that shouldn’t be there. _It’s not love._ He stares deep into those dark eyes, eyes like onyx, powerful and shining like something precious.

“You’re serious?”

Griffith just smiles. Guts gapes at him for a little longer, Griffith keeping their bodies close. He knows he could be caught easily by those eyes, that he’d drown under their weight and suffocate. He knows anyone could walk out of that grand hall and see the two of them. He takes the risk. He shouldn’t.

“If...you wanted. I owe you that much.” Guts’s voice is strained. Griffith’s heart leaps for a moment. Then he hears the second half.

“...You what?” He doesn’t want the answer.

“I-I mean...I owe you so much. If you wanted to kiss me, then you could. It’s just a kiss, right?”

Griffith’s blood turns to ice. Makes it hard to move his hands as they drop from Guts’s face, as they reach his sides and hang limp. He stares at Guts. Hard.

“You wouldn’t want to?” Griffith doesn’t want that answer, either. Moreso. It feels like he’s been punched in the stomach, and he wishes he could break the eye contact.

“Well…” Guts trails off.

Griffith decides not to let him finish, and turns abruptly on his heel, stepping back towards the other side of the balcony.

He shuts his eyes for a moment. Takes a deep breath.

And then he laughs.

He turns back around, just a bit. Lets their eyes meet. The mirth is fake, it’s fake fake fake, it’s eating at him to lie like this but he has nothing else. Guts looks embarrassed, now.

“You didn’t have to take it so seriously.” Griffith’s voice feels hollow. He hopes it doesn’t sound that way.

“You—! Dammit, don’t scare me like that!” Scare him. Of course. It must be terrifying. Griffith is laughing harder, his hand covering his lips to try and stifle the unnatural sound. Guts snarls, his cheeks pink. “I’m going inside, you sadist.”

Griffith’s still laughing when Guts opens the door and walks back into the ballroom. He’s no better than the baron, a lecher and a freak, clawing with dirty hands and sullying all that’s good. If he wants Guts, he has to take him. That’s all he can do. That’s all any man can do.

Why did it end up like this? He has a dream. Griffith has been playing this game since he was a young boy, trading human lives for power, kicking others down to get a leg up. The tremendous pressure, the hunger to be something bigger than himself. To win. To succeed. That’s all he _ever_ wanted for so long, the only option he ever had. The behelit around his neck sealed the promise. He met Guts and that all halted, if only for a moment. It was terrifying.

Guts was like the sun— warm and bright, so many things Griffith could never be. In the face of so much hatred Guts could smile, he could be Griffith’s sword and his right hand. Guts accepted what Griffith could never ask anyone to accept. Guts trusted him, and Griffith— Griffith trusted Guts, even if it was stupid, even if he shouldn’t put so much value in a pawn he’d inevitably throw away. Guts would die for him, and he didn’t—

He didn’t _want_ that.

Why didn’t he want that? Why did he want to protect that life Guts gave up to him? Why did he feel so goddamn guilty when he asked anything of him? Why did he want to be his equal, be his partner, more than some kind of golden idol that barks orders? Griffith had thrown everything away to take the power he craved. He threw away his empathy, his humanity. Why did Guts make him want to take it back?

Griffith owned him, he was his to do with what he pleased. Why didn’t he ravish him? Why didn’t he do what any other man would do? _(Please...let me hear your voice, Griffith.)_ Why did he want Guts to want him back? That wasn’t how it worked, that wasn’t how the world operated. If he wanted him he’d have to take him. _(Let me hear it.)_ After all, Griffith was unclean, a predator, looking at Guts in any other way than a friend.

A _friend._ Griffith had never had one of those before. Guts pushed boundaries Griffith held so rigidly, yet Guts was nothing but another soldier to put in place and let fall. He hated that. Griffith wanted something more and he didn’t know why. He didn’t want to force Guts and he didn’t want to make him suffer.

That was selfish.

Griffith was still chuckling, staring out into the starry night sky. The clouds covered the moon. If Guts was the sun, Griffith was the moon— cold and lifeless and empty. Griffith knew his dream was all he had, something he had to accomplish no matter what, that even if he wanted something different it was out of the question. He hadn’t wanted something else until he met Guts. He couldn’t understand himself, couldn’t find a logical reason for how he finally made a friend, someone he’d take a sword for, someone whose side he’d run to in the heat of a battle, who he’d protect with his dying breath and it was _wrong._ Griffith’s fingernails dug into his cheek, and his laughter was shifting from fake to involuntary.

Why did Guts have to be nice to him? Why did he have to look at him with those eyes? Why did he have to be so angry, so aggressive, so brash and handsome? If Griffith could puzzle out a reason, would he even feel any better?

Griffith had a set future. He was to woo the King’s daughter, win enough favor to become nobility, kill and lie his way to the throne. It was simple. It was his only option, and it killed him that he even questioned it. That he’d even consider throwing that away for one person.

And, of course, there was the fact that Guts didn’t even _want_ him that way. Guts only stayed by his side out of good will. There was no want, no desire, none of these disgusting feelings Griffith was saddled with. Griffith was the only one with ulterior motives. Griffith was the one tainting their relationship with filth.

Guts, sweet Guts, would kiss him if he _wanted._ If he was _ordered._ That was all. Griffith hated that. He hated that so much.

 _Take him._ God seemed to be saying. _If you want him, take him._ But then Griffith thinks of Guts’s eyes the first time they met, like a cornered animal. _Don’t touch me._ How could he dream of betraying that?

There was one option. There was always one option. Forget Guts, continue his path. It was logical, it was better for Guts, it was better for Griffith. He knew that. But it ached like an infected sore.

The cobblestone alleyways laid out in front of him led in one direction. He could see that castle, pristine in all its glory, calling out for him. It was his destiny, it _had_ to be.

He thinks, thinks and thinks, winding circles around himself. He can’t reach a conclusion he’s satisfied with.

Would he be happy if Guts simply remained by his side? If he became the King, and Guts his loyal retainer? Would that be enough? Griffith would sire a royal family and Guts may be wed as well. What, would Griffith keep him as a concubine? _(I could stare at you for an eternity. You’re as beautiful as any woman...but better.)_ Guts had a life to lead. Guts would find a woman to spend his life with, delicate hands and gentle words. He wouldn’t shy from their touch, would he?

Griffith feels sick. This hasn’t done him any good to think about. As long as Guts is by his side— that he would smile at him— that’s all he should want. All he should ever need. That’s enough. Griffith tried and he failed. He would remember this loss and he’d never push it again. Guts was his friend. Guts couldn’t be more than that.

Guts didn’t want to be more than that.

Was that resentment? Griffith was still laughing, but quietly. There was an icy feeling spreading through his body, a dread sinking its teeth into his shoulders. Griffith was going to be fake for the rest of his life. It was his only choice.

Guts may as well be leagues away. The distance between them was growing larger every day. Days spent in the grass between jobs talking were over. They were not children; Griffith was no woman; Griffith was no sentimental idiot. If Guts didn’t want him, that was that.

The frost spreads through his fingers. It’s better this way. Love is dangerous. Vulnerability is dangerous.

And Griffith has a dream.


End file.
